


15-3919

by foxtails



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon, appalling examples of correct paintbrush maintenance, blink and you'll miss it levels of angst, but really it's over in approximately 3 paragraphs, gratuitous use of the pantone CMS as a relationship metaphor, it's just really soft they love each other a lot, just a lot of soft™ feelings, painters overalls can be sexy, patrick is just really into his husband, sickening levels of newly married domesticity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:29:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29608773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxtails/pseuds/foxtails
Summary: The rest of the house was a manageable project for the two of them once Patrick had reassured David that the distinct aura of the seventies could be easily remedied with a lick of paint and a few replaced carpets. At the time, Patrick had assumed that the lick of paint would be applied mostly by him, having seen first hand David’s disinclination around what he deemed messy or dirty projects. What he didn’t account for was David’s self-professed superior knowledge of the correct aesthetic for their home. After two years and change, he reasons, he should probably have known better.___or: David and Patrick repaint the cottage. David, it turns out, contains multitudes.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 109
Kudos: 340





	15-3919

By the eighth Tuesday, Patrick has learnt to follow his nose home. Within a month of moving in, now settled into homeownership, David had taken it upon himself to use his new, relatively well equipped kitchen and the privacy of Tuesdays alone to gently ease himself into cooking meals from scratch, with varying degrees of success. Patrick has sniffed his way from the front door to chili, stir frys, one very questionable attempt at mac and cheese (to David’s credit it tasted significantly better than it looked) and an array of broths and soups in the handful of months they've lived together. 

This Tuesday is different. The smell that greets his nose on a freezing Tuesday in late November isn't warm or comforting. There’s no spice in the air, not even the sharp tang of burning that Patrick knows will lead to a despondent David and a takeout menu. It's cold, almost chemically smelling. It reminds him of spring Sundays with his dad, trailing through hardware stores picking up supplies for what seemed to Patrick like a never ending list of home improvement projects. 

He follows the scent through the living room to the den where he finds David, sat cross legged on the floor in an old singles week volunteer shirt, staring up at the wall in front of him. Patrick's brain finally catches up to what the smell is. Paint.

"So you started painting?"

David jumps slightly, his distressed face softening into a smile as he twists and looks up at Patrick.

"I did."

"And you somehow obtained...three? additional colours to the ones we bought yesterday?"

"Well it turns out I hate at  _ least _ two of the ones we got yesterday and I didn't want to wait until next Monday with just these patches on the wall when I  _ know _ I don’t want them. Stevie wanted company on her motel errands and I am a good friend, so."

Patrick slowly takes in the room properly. Neatly masked out on the largest wall in the den are six crisp blocks of colour, various shades of grey evenly spaced apart. Next to each swatch, David has carefully cut out and taped up the corresponding sample from the colour charts they brought back from the paint store the previous afternoon.

David unfolds himself on the floor, standing up and handing Patrick a small notebook. 

"Each colour has a code, which I've written down for safety, and I’ve added a little sample with it. We need to see them all in different lighting conditions before we can make any real decisions, but I can tell you now that licorice is too dark for this room, and look at the radisson - it may as well not exist for the complete lack of impact it has in here."

Patrick smiles. "Okay, licorice and radisson are out. So what else do we have here?"

David gestures vaguely at the wall. "The Dover gray looks surprisingly better on the wall than it does on the chart but I think it's too close in shade to the armchairs, they'll just disappear into the wall if we're not careful. I picked up an Inverness gray, that's the bottom left, but it feels a little cold for a den? This should be a cosy room."

Patrick's face of concentration falls into a soft smile at David's final comment. The first time they had been able to do an internal tour of the cottage, he’d watched as David’s whole body relaxed in a sigh when they were shown into the den. The previous owners had used it as a reading nook, taking advantage of the small open fireplace along one of the external walls and the natural light afforded by south facing windows. He’d turned and looked at Patrick, eyes shining, and Patrick had known he’d part oceans to secure this for them.

"I need to find a warm grey. Something still neutral, but on the warmer side."

Patrick picks up one of the colour charts from the pile David has assembled on the side table, flicking past the brights, the pastels, the specific bathroom paints.

"How about  _ Stonehenge Greige _ ? It's from the neutrals rather than the greys, but it seems warm. Warmer than these, anyway."

David tilts his head and hums in agreement as his stomach grumbles out loud into the room. 

"We can try the Stonehenge colour. We have to see it up on the wall though. You could swing by the paint store on your way back from pickups on Thursday if you have time? Right now though, I need to eat and shower, in that order. I’m so tired. Decorating is so tiring. How do people do this as a job? My whole body is tired and I don’t even want to think about the havoc the combination of the paint and this shirt is having on my skin. I am absolutely certain Alexis went for the cheapest possible option possible with these shirts just to spite me." He picks at the hem of the shirt, "No wonder my mom refused to wear one."

Patrick's face curves into a fond grin and he leans up to kiss David's temple, murmuring in his ear, "Here's my proposal. It’s a good plan, but we’re gonna rearrange the order of it a little. You take off the horrible shirt. You go shower—take your time. I'll order in from the Thai place in Elmdale and we can eat in our sweats. You’ve had a busy day, you deserve a little R&R."

David nods, eyes bright. "I did work  _ very _ hard today. So hard in fact, that I may need an extra day off to make up for—" 

He cuts himself off with a yelp as Patrick smacks him on the ass. 

"Don't push your luck, Rose."

David's grumbles fade up the stairs, getting drowned out as he starts the shower. Patrick dials in their food order for delivery and checks the fridge for wine, grabbing a handful of blueberries to tide him over until the food arrives.

He wanders back into the den, picking David’s notebook back up and reading over his thoughts. David’s precision with the masking on the wall is in no way reflected in the notes he's made—his wild script timestamping colour observations he made throughout the day in the varied light—from the bright post-lunch sun to the warm, artificial glow of the floor lamps in the corners of the room when it started to get dark.

Patrick looks up as he hears the shower shut off, following the creaking of the floorboards above him as David meanders between the bathroom and the bedroom. Patrick moves back towards the kitchen, his mind wandering as he visualises David painting throughout the day, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration as he carefully masked and painted his swatches on the wall. He shakes his head free of the daydream as he collects dishes and cutlery, pulling glasses from a cabinet and retrieving the wine from the fridge, pressing the heel of his hand down to readjust himself in his jeans as he rummages for the corkscrew he knows is in the drawer somewhere.

An hour later, with bellies full and an enormous fleece blanket pulled over them on the couch, Patrick curls into David, tracing lazy patterns on his thigh. 

"I like seeing your creative process again. I love your investment in making sure the paint colours are right, with your extra trips out to the paint store."

David pulls a face. "I mean, I told you Stevie was already going to the hardware store for motel stuff! I figured I might as well go if the ride was available! It's not like I made a  _ special trip _ out to buy paint!"

Patrick leans up to kiss the indignation off of David's face, pinching his hip under the blanket.

"I wasn't mocking you, David," he plants another kiss on David to cut off his response, "I know you had some...apprehensions about the  _ entire _ 'doing it yourself' aspect of DIY and I'm just glad you're enjoying it. I wasn’t sure you would." Another kiss, firmer this time, "Plus, the thought of getting you in a pair of painters overalls? It's kinda doing it for me." 

An array of emotions flit across David's expressive face before settling into curiosity, mixed with a little arousal. "Patrick," the waver in his voice betrays his next words, "there is  _ nothing _ sexy about—” he grimaces before continuing, “ _ —painters overalls. _ "

"Each to their own," Patrick murmurs, leaning back in so he can mouth his way along David's jaw. "But I for one think you would look  _ very cute _ in a pair of overalls." He kisses gently under David's ear, thumb rubbing circles on his hip under the blanket. "Probably best you don't wear anything under them, we don't want to risk your—" he's cut off as David pushes his face away, flailing wildly.

"No.  _ Nope _ ! Absolutely not! We are not doing this; I am not playing any part in your sordid overall fantasies, Patrick. We are not those people!"

As David scrambles off the couch to stand in front of Patrick, pointing accusatively at him, Patrick in turn grins at the obscene tent in the front of David's soft joggers, betraying his indignation.

"You sure about that David? Someone seems to disagree with you."

"Okay well  _ someone  _ is an involuntary reaction to stimuli and their reaction cannot be held against me!"

Patrick giggles to himself as David storms off towards the kitchen, followed by the telltale sounds of mugs being pulled from a cabinet and the tea kettle being filled with water. He scoots himself up and tilts his head backwards over the armrest of the couch to give him a view of the den. The light from the living room illuminates David's swatches just enough for them to be visible, and he considers whether any of the rejected colours could be used elsewhere in the house.

They’d been lucky. Despite its age, the cottage had cleared the building survey Patrick had insisted on with flying colours. The previous owners had renovated both the master and en suite bathrooms into two beautiful, fully tiled wet rooms. On their first viewing, the en suite shower alone had Patrick thanking his lucky stars that the house had never been given an opportunity on the open market, while David had squeezed his arm just a little too hard at the enormous tub in the master.

The rest of the house was a manageable project for the two of them once Patrick had reassured David that the distinct aura of the seventies could be easily remedied with a lick of paint and a few replaced carpets. At the time, Patrick had assumed that the lick of paint would be applied mostly by him, having seen first hand David’s disinclination around what he deemed messy or dirty projects. What he didn’t account for was David’s self-professed superior knowledge of the correct aesthetic for their home. After two years and change, he reasons, he should probably have known better.

David’s tea barely reaches a drinkable temperature before he’s slumping down on the sofa, eyes closed and face buried in Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick just about manages to get David up the stairs and into the bathroom without incident, stripping David of his sweater and pushing a toothbrush into his hand.

David is asleep minutes after he finally curls up under the duvet, genuinely exhausted by his day. Patrick sinks down quietly into the mattress behind him, curling an arm around David's waist and breathing him in. He smiles at the faint hint of emulsion that has somehow survived both a shower and an extended skin routine. He loves every iteration of David he's encountered over the past few years, for better and for worse, but David in the depths of a creative vision was the first one he fell in love with. Patrick doesn't chance playing favourites with all the Davids he meets, but if he did, this David, snuffling gently in his sleep after a day of decorating, might possibly sit at the top.

**

It's three weeks and four trips to the hardware store before the den is finished. In the end, Patrick's  _ Stonehenge Greige _ does in fact win out after completing the thorough and competitive David Rose Assessment of Colour Quality across a full week of varying light and weather conditions. David proves himself to be very adept with a cutting in brush, co-opting an old t-shirt and sweats of Patrick’s to wear and delegating all roller work to Patrick in light of splatter concerns. They work together in the evenings, laying down drop cloths, pulling furniture away from walls, and carefully masking outlets and light switches. 

David compiles an extensive playlist of soft pop and gentle folk covers to paint to while Patrick organizes a handful of batch cooked meals that they can reheat easily from the freezer when they're too tired to cook.

They eventually settle into a routine, working in sync to pour paint into plastic trays and unwrap plastic wrap from loaded paintbrushes and rollers. Over the dark evenings of winter they transition from the den into the hallway, up the staircase and onto the landing, soft greys contrasting with crisp white baseboards and ceilings. They bicker softly over the nuances of what Patrick will maintain are identical shades of blue-grey, and whether the baseboards should be painted in gloss, eggshell, or satin.

The longer days of spring bring with them neutral tones in the living and dining rooms, and the warmer temperatures lead to a change in decorating outfits for both of them. Patrick's favourite fine tipped brush is the first casualty of the warmer weather, abandoned dramatically on a dropcloth when David arrives home one evening to the visual of Patrick, laid out on his belly in just denim shorts and a pair of earphones, carefully painting a baseboard in the dining room. If Patrick has to dispose of the brush, along with that particular dropcloth, on account of bodily fluids… Well, he reckons it was probably worth it.

**

The soft, lumpy parcel arrives in the mail four days after David relegates a third shirt of Patrick's to the garbage.

"You're wrecking your clothes. And while some of those shirts absolutely deserved to be thrown out, this seems like the cheaper outcome in the long run." David explains, tearing open the package and dumping the contents out onto the bed.

"You bought—"

"Overalls, yes. Which, according to both the internet  _ and  _ the customer service employee I spoke to, do not come in either a slimmer cut or a more flattering colour than… oversized and white."

Patrick's sure that information isn't entirely correct—he's definitely seen Jake collecting food from the café in an incredibly flattering pair of navy blue overalls—but he keeps this to himself. David is a vision in white, but despite now having ready access to all of his clothes, it's a colour still so rarely placed into his carefully curated outfit rotation.

Patrick grins, already stripping off his jeans and shirt, standing ridiculously in his boxer-briefs and socks in the middle of the bedroom. He gestures with grabby hands at David, who unravels and checks the sizes of each pair before handing him a set. Patrick pulls on the overalls, adjusting the straps over his shoulders and bending down to cuff the legs until they sit neatly at his ankles. He plants his hands on his hips and spreads his legs slightly, throwing an exaggerated wink at David, still perched on the side of the bed.

"How do I look?"

David's eyes are wide and dark, his mouth dropped open ever so slightly.

"I hate that I'm into this? You look, um—" he gestures up and down Patrick's body, shaking his head. "It's working for me. Why is it working for me?"

Patrick feels his own grin widen. "Is it how competent and professional I look? I feel like a pro in these." He looks down at himself, inspecting his attire properly. "David, they’re so comfortable." He squats for emphasis, “I kinda get why Jake lives in these things. I feel very… free.”

"Okay, not to take away from your enjoyment of this, but please put a shirt on. Not to encourage this Jake comparison, but like most conversations with him, I feel like I'm about to receive a very practical and informative striptease."

**

Weeks go by, David’s pair of overalls seemingly forgotten while Patrick’s develop a satisfying layer of paint splatter and fingerprint marks where he absentmindedly wipes his hands over his own thighs. David quietly continues to paint in the same t-shirt he stole from Patrick in the fall, allocating it it’s own personal laundry cycle once a week to freshen it up. Patrick notes more than once that  _ his _ shirts didn’t receive the same special treatment, David brushing him off with a wave of his hand and a “but you look so cute in your little painting suit, so we’ve all won, really.”

Patrick’s not entirely sure what  _ he  _ won out of this arrangement, other than shirts in the garbage, but he has broken the overalls in nicely, the material at his knees and across his thighs softening with use, and David hasn’t thrown any more of his clothes out, so perhaps he is winning in a roundabout way.

Patrick was not winning. Patrick cannot believe he let David convince him he was winning. Breaking in a pair of overalls while David stretched out a cheap t-shirt was so far from winning, so, so far from the podium topper Patrick feels like as he stands in the open door of their smallest guest bedroom.

Patrick cannot believe he has spent 3 hours running errands, picking up groceries, ensuring the store was still standing, making  _ small talk with Twyla _ when he could have been here, at home, witnessing this.

Patrick has won the husband Olympics, the relationship Stanley Cup, the World Series of life. Patrick’s husband is inexplicably shirtless, miles of olive skin uncharacteristically on display, perched on top of a stepladder, his ridiculous noise cancelling headphones smushing all his hair down. Patrick’s husband  _ is wearing his overalls.  _ He’s rolled the legs up so they’re cuffed at the thickest part of his calf muscles, straps loose over his bare shoulders. Patrick feels his mouth drop open as he takes in the length of David’s body, his soft waist, the constellations of freckles across his shoulders and biceps, the pink farmer’s market sunburn at the nape of his neck, the soft hair under his outstretched arm. He’s loosened the shoulder straps to their limit, leaving his chest and shoulder blades entirely exposed. The muscles in his forearms flex as he carefully cuts in where the ceiling meets the wall, his knees braced against the top of the ladder, head swaying slightly to the music only he can hear.

Patrick’s been standing in the doorway for days, minutes? Probably only seconds, and he can’t breathe with how hard he is winning. He steps into the room finally, almost tripping over the balled up shirt on the floor. David’s painting shirt. He makes sure to step gently into David’s field of vision, the can of paint in his left hand way too expensive to be lost to the cloth spread across the carpet, raising his hand to catch David’s eye.

David jumps ever so slightly, pink spreading across his cheeks as he looks down at himself, half naked in an outfit he’d sworn up and down to Patrick he would need to be incredibly desperate to even consider wearing. He looks up at the section of wall he was painting and shrugs, scraping the excess paint off his brush into the open can and passing both down to Patrick to deal with.

Patrick finds a scrap of plastic wrap to prevent the brush drying out and half-heartedly hammers the lid onto the paint can with the heel of his hand, figuring he just needs half an hour’s buffer before he can clean up properly. When he straightens up, David has the headphones around his neck but he’s still standing on the top step of the ladder, adding an additional foot on the handful of inches he usually has on Patrick. 

He steps forward, eye level with David’s bare waist beneath his overalls, and presses his face against David’s warm skin. 

“David…” he breathes out, causing David to twitch away from the sensation. He pulls his head back and looks up, catching David’s face as it passes through amused, curious, embarrassed, and back to amused. “You look—I mean this with all sincerity when I say you are so hot right now. David, you look  _ so hot _ .”

David squirms, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling, the flush spreading down his neck, “No. I  _ got _ hot, which is why I put these on and also why I am not wearing a shirt. That is not the same as looking hot. Absolutely not the same.”

“Not seeing a difference from this angle, David. Please come down here so I can kiss you.”

David climbs down a few of the steps, enough that he can lean down and comply, cupping Patrick’s jaw with his hand to tilt him into a kiss far too filthy for two in the afternoon. Patrick throws a hand out, grabbing David’s hip for balance as David licks into his mouth and carefully lowers a leg to get back on solid ground. David’s skin is warm, so warm from the sun pouring through the open windows. He runs a hand up David’s bicep and squeezes at his shoulder, eliciting a gentle grunt from David, still pressed against his mouth. He pulls gently at the headphones still hanging around David’s neck, hooking them over the top of the ladder behind them.

“I can’t believe you’re actually wearing-”

“No, no, don’t ruin this. This is good, don’t ruin it.” David cuts him off with another kiss, a hand running up Patrick’s shirt to grasp at his waist as David maneuvers him across the room, up against what Patrick dimly hopes is an unpainted wall. He tugs at the hem of Patrick’s shirt, dragging it up and over his head and pressing him back against the wall, the cold surface a shock to his overheated skin. His head clunks against the brick as David mouths wetly across his jaw and down his neck, biting gently at his shoulder. Patrick runs a thumb across David’s exposed collarbone, pushing one of the straps off his shoulder. His other hand finds the pocket of the overalls, hooking his fingers inside to pull David’s hips flush with his own. He feels David’s mouth drop open as he sighs against Patrick’s skin, feels his body tugged even closer to David’s by the belt loops of his shorts.

“Bedroom, David. Bed?” he pants into the stifling air of the room.

“Yeah, yeah. Just—let me—” David shrugs his shoulder out from under the remaining strap of his overalls, letting them pool down at his feet. “The paint, bedding, I don’t—” he shakes his head at himself. He trips out of the pile of fabric at his feet, his hand wrapped around Patrick’s wrist as he half drags, half pushes him out of the guest room and towards the master.

David all but  _ launches  _ Patrick across the room onto their bed, standing at the foot and waving an aggressive gesture at him that Patrick quickly decodes as a request to strip down. He kicks off his shorts, narrowly missing David’s head, and grins up at him, folding his hands behind his head proudly as David’s gaze rakes up and down his body.

“You gonna just stand there and watch? Or—”

David twists awkwardly as he does one last cursory glance of his body to check for rogue paint, before crawling up the bed to meet Patrick at the head. He plants a hand on either side of Patrick’s elbows, tilting his head down to whisper against Patrick’s mouth.

“You have no idea.  _ No idea  _ how pissed I am that you were right. God, I was pissed that you looked good in them. I am even more pissed at how good  _ I  _ look in them.”

“David you have  _ no ide—”  _ he’s cut off as David finally kisses him, pulling a groan from deep in Patrick’s chest. He stretches his hands up to cling to the bars of the headboard, giving him leverage to roll his hips up against David’s, desperately seeking the friction David is cruelly keeping from him. David huffs a laugh against his mouth as he reaches a hand down to hold Patrick in place, apparently intent on killing him on what was a perfectly pleasant Monday afternoon.

“Oh, we’re playing dirty, huh?” Patrick manages to get out, throwing a hand down to pinch at David’s waist and bucking his hips up when David jolts away from his fingers. He knows he’s played himself when his cock makes contact with David’s, his eyes rolling back in his head with relief. He throws a silent thanks to the universe for their lack of close neighbours when he and David both simultaneously cry out into the room, all teasing forgotten.

Patrick lets his knees drop almost flat to the mattress, one hand on David’s waist and the other gripping the back of his neck as David grinds against him, his mouth sucking marks onto Patrick’s collarbone. He reaches down to David’s ass, tugging the waistband of his underwear down, wanting more contact. David whines, lifting his hips just enough to let Patrick shove them down his thighs. He tries to do the same for Patrick but quickly realises it won’t happen while his legs are spread so obscenely.

Patrick sits up, yanking his underwear down his legs and discarding them off the side of the bed, ignoring the distinctive  _ laundry hamper? _ look David gives him. He waves a hand at David as he scrabbles blindly in the bedside table with his other, pulling out the first bottle of lube he gets his hands on. He looks at the label quickly, raising an eyebrow at the ‘caramel latte’ flavour before pouring himself a generous handful. He pulls David towards him with his clean hand, taking a second to appreciate the way David bites down hard on his own lip when Patrick slicks them both up. He wipes the excess over the base of his stomach and does a half crunch, yanking David down on top of him and thrusting up, hard.

“Oh my God, David. David— _ David _ oh my god!" Patrick groans ridiculously, his filter completely fried. "You’re so hot, David you’re  _ so _ hot, Jesus Christ you’re—” He’s babbling, he knows he’s babbling, just muttering absolute nonsense into David’s ear where they’re pressed, temple to temple. But he can’t help it; his husband is so hot, so effortlessly hot in his overalls, so  _ fucking _ hot. The muscles of David’s back move under Patrick’s hands as he grinds down, their dicks rubbing  _ perfectly  _ together, the heat of an impending orgasm coiling low in Patrick’s belly. He pulls David’s head up and away from his shoulder, cupping his jaw and pulling him over so he can suck on David’s bottom lip. 

David’s mouth goes slack, his eyes squeezed shut as the movement of his hips becomes sloppy and uncoordinated. Patrick grabs his ass to try and keep a rhythm, panting against his mouth, a refrain of “love you, love you David, I love you.”

“I love you,” David manages to choke out, his chin dropping to his chest as he stills, spilling between them with a deep sigh. Patrick is so close,  _ so _ close to joining him, as he shoves a hand down to tug at his cock. David stares down at him in awe, chest heaving as Patrick fucks his fist frantically. His toes curl against the sheets as he pulls himself over the edge, adding to the mess already coating his stomach. 

He pulls David down for a lingering kiss, unable to keep the smile off his face when David pulls back to look down at him with a single raised eyebrow.

“I just wanna go back to something you said just now, something about me being right?”

David presses a finger to Patrick’s mouth, shaking his head.

“Not a word out of you.” He rolls off the bed, marching shakily across the room.

“But David-”

“Not! A! Word!”

David’s brush and the can of paint are the second official casualties of the renovation. Once again, Patrick declares it absolutely worth it.

**

Patrick falls in love with David on a regular basis. He falls in love when David grins toothily at him over a bowl of slow cooked turkey chilli. He falls in love when David falls bodily through the doors of the apothecary with a drink tray and bag of pastries from the café. He falls in love when David dozes with his head against the passenger window of the car on long drives. He falls in love when he finds David standing bewildered in the middle of the 'rice, pasta & grains' aisle of the grocery store looking for quinoa.

Patrick falls in love yet again on a nondescript Sunday when David wanders off at the Elm Glen flea market. He finds him at a stall stacked tall with second-hand books, hand written signs denoting the fiction paperbacks; old issues of National Geographic; children's board books; and a small display of hardcover coffee table books. David is holding a black, dog-eared hardcover, carefully flipping through the pages. Each page is filled with swatches of colour, not dissimilar to the card strips they've been picking up from the paint section of the hardware store.

Patrick motions to the person behind the stall, pointing at the book in David's hands and handing over a $10 bill.

"Hey," he murmurs, running a hand across the back of David's shoulders, "it's yours, let's head out."

David smiles, closing the book and tucking it into the tote he has hung on his shoulder as they leave.

"Explain the colours to me." Patrick asks later that evening. He curls up onto the couch next to David, handing him a glass of wine and gesturing to the book open in David's lap. David's shopping tote had hung over the back of one of the dining chairs all afternoon, but he'd retrieved the book and a pencil after dinner, quietly turning the pages and making small notes in the margins.

"Okay, so, this company holds the international standard for colours. Their colour codes mean the same thing anywhere in the world. If I chose a colour here in Ontario and send that code to Paris, or New York, or... Tokyo, it would mean the exact same colour. A computer could mix me the exact same colour. I guess... It’s a system that just gives you the guarantee that you'll get the colour you want, rather than having to try and describe the nuances to someone who doesn't see it like you."

“Like the labels for all the products in your Dad and Stevie’s motels?”

David smiles and nods softly.

“Like the products in our family’s motels.”

Patrick thinks about the paint cans currently stacked in their garage and stills.

“We’re not—you’re not—we don’t need to internationally standardise the house, right?"

“Oh god no, can you imagine? No, this is just for me.” He turns the pages of the book gently, running a thumb down each page as he does, as if he can feel the colours through his skin. “Colour is never—it’s not—they don’t—” he pauses, looking down at the book in his hands, “there’s no structure to colour. They just...exist. Millions of colours, just existing and being and happening. But sometimes, I don’t know. There’s something about seeing them structured like this. It’s calming, somehow.”

Patrick tucks himself closer into David’s side, listening as David flips slowly through the book, pointing out colours that remind him of products they sell, or furnishings he has his eye on. He learns that every colour has a code, and only some get the honour of a name. That the same colour can have a different code depending whether it is used on paper or on fabric. That since the turn of the millennium there’s been a colour of the year, sometimes two—and those all definitely have names as well as codes.

He starts to understand what David means, how it can feel calming to see the structure. Patrick has never felt comfortable making artistic decisions—his brain couldn’t get past the lack of structure involved in fine art classes in high school, or the freedom afforded to him when Rachel dragged him to a pottery painting café. But he can follow a system, a process. He understands organisation via codes and categories. He can see David follow this system with an ease he’s never shown with their POS system or Patrick’s database of vendors and products. Patrick feels calm with structure, when everything has its place. David scribbles ‘kitchen cabinets?’ next to 444-C and Patrick feels the metaphor form gradually in his brain.

He’s never been able to look back and understand, really, how he and David managed to so seamlessly merge their worlds to create the store. It felt like an anomaly; it shouldn’t work, but it did. As David continues to turn pages, make notes, and google paint codes, Patrick sees their entire relationship reflected in a book, a system. A process that sounds unnatural on paper, too complex to work without a lot of effort, but in reality? It works. He presses a kiss to David’s shoulder, the base of his neck, the soft spot behind his ear, and breathes. Oh god, does it work.

**

“This is just for me” becomes a statement not strictly true as the book starts to travel with them on hardware store trips, David squinting under the fluorescent lights of the paint aisle, trying to match modern paint samples to a nearly 30 year old book of colour swatches. Patrick perfects his apologetic look to the paint technicians when David insists on taking all his colour swatches out into the daylight to check that they match, and somehow becomes the unlikely mediator when David comes incredibly close to picking a fight with Ronnie, of all people, regarding the colour of a splashback tile for the kitchen. 

Their house creeps ever closer to becoming a home as light fittings get replaced, door furniture is picked out and fitted, and rooms get officially signed off. The stack of paint cans get whittled down gradually over the long months of summer, the overalls and dropcloths worn thin with use. David’s set of overalls develop a satisfying pattern of greys and neutrals to match Patrick’s, crudely punctuated by a handprint in ‘Gray Frost' sometime in mid August.

Summer fades softly into fall, the trees lining their back yard transitioning from green to yellow to orange and blanketing the lawn as September becomes October. Their first anniversary passes with a restrained level of fanfare, an exchange of art prints and delicate paper cut outs to be sent to the framers in Elmdale when their bedroom is complete. Alexis and Stevie team up in an uncharacteristic show of sincerity with a commission from the local graphic designer responsible for all the apothecary’s in-house event advertising. A simple, classy 8x10 print of the details of their wedding carefully framed in black. Patrick is sworn to secrecy regarding any emotion David may or may not have shown when he unwrapped the parcel, and again when David carefully rests the frame on the mantle in the den—the heart of their home.

October marks the point where David starts to drag his feet on their bedroom, the final room on their list. He picks holes in his own paint choices, making unnecessary trips back and forth for paint samples. He declares the light switches suddenly unsatisfactory, and the hardwood flooring annoys him. It throws Patrick for a loop - David had settled months ago into his own system of choosing colours and paint types, his decisions becoming more efficient the further into the process they got. It feels like a regression, multiple samples reappearing on the wall above their bed, which has taken on the appearance of a grey patchwork quilt. He commits and uncommits, making notes about each colour only to go back and scribble them out. Patrick finally breaks when David tapes up a fifth row of sample swatches, waiting until David is out before collecting up all David’s tester pots, paint swatch books, his commentary post-its, and the notebooks, stashing them all in a storage bin he knows David won’t think to look through.

He sits himself on their bed and waits for David to find him when he gets home, his back to the door, the array of paint samples on the wall behind the bed looming before him. He hears David shuffle around downstairs, running the kitchen tap, calling out for Patrick before finally climbing the stairs. Patrick sits, stoic, psyching himself up for the conversation they need to have.

It takes David a second but, “What—what’s going on? Where is all the stuff? Where’s the stuff, Patrick? The paints—the  _ stuff _ ?”

Patrick twists his body, beckoning David to sit beside him. He watches fondly as David unlaces his sneakers, folding his legs beneath him to sit next to Patrick on the bed.

“Why are you being so difficult about this room?”

“I’m not being difficult! I’m just—”

“David.” Patrick cuts him off gently, carefully considering his next words. He _knows_ the kind of people that have used words like _difficult_ as weapons against David. He doesn’t want his name added to that list in David’s head. He wraps his hand over David’s clenched fist, rubbing a thumb over David’s rings. “You’re being difficult. You’ve sampled more colours for this room than we have in the entire house combined. We’ve only used three in total on the walls. You told me we couldn’t diversify too far with our colour palette, _‘as not to disrupt the flow of the home’._ You’ve bitched about the floor three separate times this week. The bedroom shouldn’t be this tricky. Why are you making it this tricky?”

He watches David deflate slightly next to him.

“It’s the last room.”

Patrick sits patiently. Lets David find his words.

“It’s the last room. When we finish this room, we’re finished. We’re done. The house will be—” 

He pauses, swallows. Patrick frowns softly, “David—”

“No, no, let me finish. The house will be done. The house will be  _ perfect.  _ And then what? Then what do we do; what do we work on? We’ve always worked on something. The store, then us, then the wedding, then the house. There’s always been a project, something to work at.” His voice trembles. “What happens now, when there’s nothing to work at? What do we do?” 

Patrick climbs into David’s lap, holding his face in his hands. He kisses David’s forehead, his temple, his downturned mouth. “David,” he whispers, grin spreading across his face, “we _ live. _ ”

**

The last coat of paint dries almost a year exactly from the day Patrick discovered David on the floor of the den, radisson, licorice, and Dover gray a distant memory. In the weeks that follow, Patrick intercepts a number of packages, makes clandestine phone calls when David is collecting lunch from the café, volunteers for vendor runs that will take him out to Elm Glen and the framing store David sings the praises of. He researches, he measures, he tapes up markings in the hallway to test his placement.

He schedules an early morning pickup on a day David works the store alone, dropping David off under the guise of a 9am hike and promising with a kiss to pick him up at 5.25 sharp. He peeks under the brown parcel paper and comes close to tearing up at the framers, leaving a tip with a generosity David would raise an eyebrow at. He carefully secures his parcels onto the passenger seat of his car and throws a spare hoodie over them just in case. At home he unwraps his haul delicately, laying each frame out on the dining table. He retrieves one of David’s fancy fountain pens from the den and carefully hand writes a card to tuck into the back of each frame:

“2016: Serenity”

“2017: Greenery”

“2018: Ultra Violet”

Three 8x10 blocks of solid colour, a pale blue, a vivid green, a bright purple, mounted under crisp white mats and finished in a thin matte black frame each.

He re-measures the placement and taps in his hooks, carefully hanging each frame and double checking each one with a level. When he finally picks David up he manages to spin a positive reaction when asked about his non-existent hike, promising David that yes, he did remember to turn the slow cooker on. He lets David into the house first, lingering in the front porch and kicking his shoes haphazardly under the bench by the door. He gives David a minute, unsure whether the lack of reaction is a good or bad thing.

When he steps into the hallway after closing the internal door gently behind him, he thinks the silence is good. David is standing in the middle of the hallway, one hand over his mouth, brows furrowed gently like he’s trying to recall a memory. He looks over at Patrick, eyes shining.

“I think I know what these are, but I don’t want to be wrong.”

Patrick steps in behind David, one arm around his waist, his chin hooked over David's shoulder. He knows David has spent hours on the Pantone website, that David knows every single colour of the year since the year 2000. He knows that David knows what he’s looking at. He points at the leftmost frame with his free hand.

“2016.”

“The year we met,” David breathes.

“Mmhm. 2017.”

“My sister’s ridiculous Singles Week. You told me you loved me.”

“I seem to remember a similar sentiment being returned.” 

David squeezes his eyes shut and tilts his head back, “You may remember correctly.”

“And 2018.”

David turns, his left hand cupping Patrick’s jaw as he kisses him, his right seeking out the band on Patrick’s ring finger. He presses their foreheads together, whispering against Patrick’s mouth, “You handed me an entire life in 2018.” his voice breaks slightly, “An entire life.”

Patrick holds David close, burying his head into the crook of David’s neck. “I’d give you a thousand lifetimes if you asked.”

David’s arms wrap tight around Patrick’s shoulders as they sway softly on the spot. He hums into Patrick’s hair, “It’s a long hallway. You’ve set a precedent with this spacing.”

Patrick pulls back and shrugs. “I just promised you a thousand lifetimes. That’s a lot of milestones to mark.”

“That it is,” David nods, eyes sparkling, “So. What’s next?”

**Author's Note:**

> okay so terrifyingly this is the first piece of fanfiction I have ever put out into the world, so thank you if you took a chance and made it this far. a handful of sentences back in October somehow became this monster of feelings and it eventually came together.
> 
> it wouldn't have happened without the unrelenting support, handholding and all round cheerleading from [amy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roguebaby/). thank you for making me finish this. I also must thank my endlessly patient comma wranglers [rachel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishyspots/) and [jan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/januarium/) \- you guys made this thing infinitely better. Thank you.


End file.
